


The Temptation of You

by Tenoko1



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Angst, Pining, serious pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Crowley had questions and no answers, no direction. He was so caught up in his feelings for an angel that Crowley had turned traitor, setting them both free.Free to… do what?If I love him… would he Fall? Or, are You so far away it wouldn’t matter?Are we free or is this another test?If I fail this test, will it hurt him?Angel, love me or let me go. Please.Aziraphale stayed where he was, kneeling by the couch and effectively anchoring Crowley where he sat, the two of them just… watching one another.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 79





	The Temptation of You

**Author's Note:**

> Want to address smthg I saw in a post on tumblr, an Anon asking why creators weren't creating more content, that "this makes it a better opportunity to work faster, as something to distract from the gloomy reality occurring."
> 
> No. No, it doesn't. Because stress and anxiety and fear and exhaustion do not make you want to create, and there is little to inspire. People are without work and desperately trying to find work. People are worried about being able to get their medication. Others are essential workers (*waves*), and are juggling a full-time job putting them at greater risk on a daily basis, while also worrying about the safety of their loved ones, the economy, BLM and police brutality, bounties being put on the heads of American soldiers in Russia, how the rich are willing to sacrifice the lives of people so long as they continue to make profits, and how people are arrogant enough to still not take this seriously so that on a daily basis I have to tell patients to wear their mask-- properly-- or be removed for the building-- and now, we're _not allowed to enforce the mask policy_ lest patients get violent or make a scene or create videos/podcasts trying to cost us business.
> 
> I had covid back in March 2020 and was miserable for three weeks, nearly in a coma. My grandfather died from it alone in the hospital a few days after Easter. My aunt and uncle had it. My neighbor died from it a couple of days ago, and now his widow is sick. Three people at work have died from it. And my mother, who already has chronic health issues, called me yesterday to tell me she tested positive for it. **Update:** She survived, but now she has a problem with shortness of breath as well as fluid and swelling of her joints, making it hard to walk-- she's never had a problem with her joints or fluid on them. Ever.
> 
> You can't pour from an empty pitcher. Can't _entertain_ \-- for fucking free-- when you're trying not to _drown_. **As another tumblr user said, " _readers should now have more time to comment and reblog and otherwise promote their favorite writers **to distract themselves AND THE CREATORS from the gloom of reality. It goes both ways.** If you want more content in this time... help us want to provide content. Why would I scream into an empty void when it already feels like I’m doing that by simply existing?_**
> 
> Fandom is a two-way street, people. Fics are not birthed from the ether but by a living, breathing, _**struggling** _human being on the other side of the screen.__  
>  _  
>  _Please remember to properly feed, water, and support fanwork creators. Flowers wither and die without water and sunlight, guys.__  
> 

Sprawled against pillows on the couch, one knee drawn up and his other foot planted on the floor, Crowley idly watched Aziraphale tutt about the bookshop showing off his extensive collection to a young woman.

Aziraphale’s good humor was due entirely to the fact that she did not want to buy any of his books, merely to use his bookshop the way one might the library.

When she’d made it clear she only wanted to _consult_ the books for her dissertation or research, Crowley relaxed and waved away the spell leaving her with a niggling anxiety over whether she’d locked the door to her flat.

The sun through the windows made dust motes dance in the air, the shop a serene, magical place of books and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.

The ambience of it was... peaceful. Warm and inviting.

And frequented by a snake that spent countless hours surrounded by books he rarely read.

Crowley didn’t come to the shop for the books.

He didn’t even come for the wine.

Simply, Crowley wanted to be wherever Aziraphale was.

It was a confession that lost its sharp edge centuries ago and was, now, only a constant dull ache in his chest.

Crowley wouldn’t have been drawn to just any angel, of course. But Aziraphale… sort of fascinated him. Because he was different. Because he cared to the point he disobeyed orders, then worried himself in circles about ineffability and how to know if you actually did the right thing.

Crowley found himself wanting to compare notes and experiences, to know what Earth and humanity looked like through the angel’s eyes. Crowley wanted to know what rules the angel had broken in his efforts to protect God’s creation while still following his orders, and what trouble the bumbling, earnest principality had gotten himself tangled up in.

This with Aziraphale was like being tempted by his very own Serpent of Eden, a small, coaxing voice in his ear, the tugging on his heart like Crowley were a fish caught on a line-- and willingly he went.

Crowley had tried to deny the impulse-- to resist the impossible gravity-- but it was a fruitless endeavor when a mere glimpse of the angel made Crowley’s heart leap in his chest. Made him feel emotions demons shouldn’t be capable of experiencing. It made his face light up, his feet propelling him forward with any feeble excuse to make conversation. Seeing Aziraphale always made Crowley sigh with relief, as though he didn’t have to hold his breath and wait anymore.

Crowley’d had a harsh awakening one day, caught sight of his warped reflection on a decorative shield, his sharp angles, small circular tinted glasses making it appear as though his eyes had been burned from his head, and his hair alight like flame in the sun.

It wasn’t as though Crowley had forgotten he was a demon, but on Earth… it seemed little more than one more label, too distant for fire and ash and soot, from the wailing and screams, from the filth and dirt and damnation that was his.

He was a demon.

A demon… _infatuated_ with an angel. The person he found himself looking for in each new city. The person he _wanted_ to see. That he _missed_ in the time between.

And, _oh_ , that was dangerous. Because it meant denying his basic nature, meant taking off his armor, giving himself weak points and vulnerabilities, and all of this for the angel meant to raise his sword _against_ Crowley.

It had been a harsh epiphany, one Crowley often wrestled with the way Jacob wrestled with an angel all through the night.

Aziraphale had Crowley chasing his tail from their first introduction, but this… this meant learning how to balance the dualities of himself while keeping up appearances.

He’d begun walking a tight rope of half-truths and vague lies in his reports, that their encounters were about challenging the angel, making him second guess his orders and the Ineffable Plan, that he was planting seeds of doubt in the angel’s mind.

His reports had granted Crowley commendations from his superiors, an accomplishment he’d been rather proud of, until he realized they thought he wasn’t just making an angel question God, they thought Crowley was attempting to _seduce_ an _angel_. Trying to make him fall.

The thought twisted Crowley into knots of anxiety.

It wasn’t like Crowley could correct them, either. It was safer if Hell thought he was tempting an angel to lust. Heaven would never catch wind of it lest they intervene, but it did make Hell breathing down Crowley’s neck that much worse.

There had been gleeful delight from Satan when he heard about it, praising Crowley for his brilliant cunning and cruelty-- accompanied by vague warnings he not let the angel tempt him to the light.

Crowley was reminded again and again there was no redemption for the damned.

Not that Crowley had ever thought about seducing Aziraphale.

Well... he’d never _tried_ to seduce Aziraphale. And the images and scenarios that played out in Crowley’s head… well, it wasn’t seduction.

Lust and temptation and vice didn’t involve timid touches with shaking fingers, or Crowley’s heart pounding in his chest with the thundering of a stampede. It didn’t involve the painful longing tugging at his ribs, nor imagining whispering confessions against the angel’s soft mouth, of needy entries of _‘please_ ,’ opening himself to Aziraphale and exposing every vulnerability.

Seduction didn’t involve Crowley _falling in love_ with his enemy.

They were an angel and a demon.

Aziraphale could destroy him.

Crowley would let him.

Expression remote, Crowley stared into the fireplace, listless fingers curled around his wine glass.

He was soft for a demon.

And he _was_ a demon. While perhaps not _evil_ , it didn’t make him _good_. He’d worked hard for Hell through the millenia. He was blessed good at it more often than not.

He’d started wars and encouraged coups. Assassinations? ‘Nothing personal, just got a job to do.’

He’d stolen fortunes and razed mansions to the ground.

Extortion, blackmail, bribes, threats, and coercion? Must be Tuesday.

He’d ruined lives and toppled empires-- then sat back with a bucket of popcorn to watch the show.

That was part of the whole gig, wasn’t it? When you lived forever, ruining someone’s life was just a bit of mischief.

Then, there was Aziraphale.

Crowley wouldn’t say Aziraphale was perfect-- not in any way that mattered to other angels, anyway. Aziraphale cared. He was practically brimming over with all the love and joy he felt for humanity. Yes, he could handle temptations on Crowley’s behalf when the Arrangement called for it-- he was _very_ good at it, too-- but that didn’t make him wicked or less angelic. It only showed how very clever he was, and how much Heaven underestimated him.

Aziraphale was not a perfect angel.

And Crowley would never say Aziraphale made him want to be _good_.

Crowley liked mischief and revenge and just-desserts. He liked wicked temptations and all manner of sin. Pride, sloth, greed, and lust were all very dear friends.

But sometimes… sometimes Crowley would look at Aziraphale and wish. Wish things were different, that there wasn’t a line drawn in the sand forcing the two of them into opposing roles. Sometimes, Crowley wished he were more like Aziraphale.

Not for Heaven’s sake.

Not for Aziraphale’s.

Crowley remembered creating the stars. Remembered weaving starlight into a fine gossamer and making the cosmos glitter. He remembered adorning planets with halos of their own, rings of color made from ice and diamonds, sections of the sky he’d painted with a quiet whimsy, when his mischief presented itself in another fashion. He remembered when fashioning beautiful things, constellations and nebulas and galaxies, had filled him with a calm contentment. Had settled his restlessness.

But, that was the problem.

Demons did not _create_ ; they destroyed. A recalcitrant blasphemy scorning Heavenly creation and everything demons stood for since their falling.

Aziraphale was a beautiful creation, and he made Crowley want to create beautiful things. He made Crowley _want_. Want things he shouldn’t want, impossible things from a reality different from their own.

Aziraphale made Crowley want to be vulnerable and soft. Made him want to be cruel and selfish, to surrender. He wanted to drop to his knees at Aziraphale’s feet like a prisoner of war and beg the angel to either love him or let him go. To put him out of his misery and sever the connection keeping him trapped by gravity in orbit around Aziraphale.

Crowley would be free, cast out in a bastardized falling and adrift, but even a painful answer was better than the agony of hope.

In contrast, Aziraphale also had the power to cut the wisps of tethers holding Crowley _back_ , let their orbiting bodies succumb to gravity and collide.

_I’ll do whatever you say._

_But love me or let me go._

_I can’t stay on this knife’s edge of pain, hoping for a miracle._

Ineffability had saved Earth, but Crowley wondered how true that was. Were Her plans _truly_ ineffable? Beyond what they could understand? Forever ten steps ahead of everyone in a scheme they’d yet to figure out?

If the soldiers of Heaven and Hell were having to rely on _faith_ in a divine plan… perhaps all of this was merely God’s mischief, and it was their lives She played with for Her amusement.

Maybe She wasn’t there at all, and they were just twisting in the wind.

Ineffable Plan or abandonment, there wasn’t any difference from where he stood, which posed the question: what did any of it matter? What were they meant to do? You didn’t create an ornate clock and not expect it to tick, didn’t create a car not expecting it to run.

_What do You want from me? What are we meant to do? Or is our blind struggle merely a source of entertainment from where You perch without a care?_

_Am I meant to love him? Whether yes or no, what do I do? Are these things mine, or are they the result of Your machinations? How can I love him if I’m not meant to?_

_I may be cruel and cunning, but such things were Your creations._ You _are a master of the art._

When fingers touched Crowley’s hand, he jerked, blinking back to the present.

Aziraphale was on one knee, fingers curling around the wine glass to take it from Crowley. His brows were pinched together, the warm glow of the fire illuminating him from behind. Gave him a halo.

“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale. There was an edge to his voice. “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale settled his hand, soft and warm, over Crowley’s.

Relinquishing the near-empty wine glass, Crowley cast his gaze to a darkened corner. “Fine, angel.”

Eyes lowered, Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. “Forgive me, my dear--”

“Forgiveness is _your_ department.”

“...Then… then I forgive you,” Aziraphale said, flicking his blue eyes up, and their gazes met, “for… everything you might think you need forgiveness from, and even the things you think are unforgivable. Whatever it is that’s going on in your head to make you look so unhappy.”

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale. Damned. Cast out. An unholy abomination dancing to a melody while only the Almighty knows the steps. I’m _unforgivable_ , angel. Don’t you remember?”

Aziraphale flinched, eyes falling to Crowley’s mouth with a distant look, the memory as bitter a medicine on the tongue. The day when Aziraphale made his decision, but it wasn’t the one Crowley wanted.

Even after, Crowley had gone running back, desperate to take back the words and fool himself everything between them was alright, that Aziraphale hadn’t made the choice yet.

_Don’t cut me loose._

_Don’t send me away._

_Let me stay._

_Let me stay._

_Let me stay._

Waving his hand, Crowley let his head fall against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. He felt crushed and adrift all at once. “Ignore me, Aziraphale. Winter makes me morose.”

Silence settled, just heavy enough to be awkward, to make Crowley want to squirm or rise from the couch like the unfurling of a flower.

He _was_ morose. He didn’t want wine. Didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to stay in the bookshop, tainting the air with the ugly black cloud drifting through his veins and seeping out of his pores.

Crowley wanted to go to a pub and run up a tab until he couldn’t see straight. Until the frustration boiled over and came out-- dismissed as the anger or sobs of a poor bastard drunk off his arse.

All he ever did was ask questions, and everytime he was left without answers.

Did She give a damn about any of them?

 _You assembled us,_ he wanted to yell. _You brought us here. Why? What are we meant to do? We’re sitting around like useless, outdated technology that has no place in the world!_

Heaven versus Hell, it was all a blessed wash anyhow. Humans would do as they did, regardless of demons or angels scurrying around with ambitions and quotas.

What was the point? Where was the punchline?

Crowley snorted.

The punchline was a demon pining uselessly away for an angel like a whipped dog. And like a whipped dog, he did whatever he could so as to not be left outside and all alone.

“I am not drunk enough for this,” Crowley declared, missing the days when wine was brought to you in a jug. Planting his hand on the sofa, Crowley pushed to sitting, pivoting so both feet were on the floor. Aziraphale remained where he was, now sitting on his heels at Crowley’s feet and peering up at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t mind me, angel,” Crowley rasped. “Going to undarken your door.”

“And do... what?”

“Take out my frustration on the masses or a bottle of whiskey, I don’t blessed well know!”

That was the point and problem.

He didn’t know.

Crowley had questions and no answers, no direction. He was so caught up in his feelings for an angel, that Crowley had turned traitor, setting them both free.

Free to… do what?

_If I love him… would he Fall? Or, are You so far away it wouldn’t matter?_

_Are we free or is this another test?_

_If I fail this test, will it hurt him?_

_Angel, love me or let me go. Please._

Aziraphale stayed where he was, kneeling by the couch and effectively anchoring Crowley where he sat, the two of them just… watching one another.

Crowley remembered his glasses on the table, his yellow eyes with their sharp slit through the middle under gentle scrutiny from eyes as blue as the sky and as soft as the dandelion fluff.

Uncertainty and a deep ache stabbed Crowley, the easy slide of a knife between his ribs. He felt ashamed and out of place.

“...what?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes slid away from his face, a gentle path to where Crowley’s fingers curled around the edge of the couch on either side of his knees. With a considering look, Aziraphale reached out, warm pads of thick fingers hovering over the pale skin of Crowley’s hand. His eyes flicked up for permission before tracing his finger in a barely there touch along the fine bones of Crowley’s hand.

Crowley held his breath, other hand curling and clutching, threatening to rip the patterned fabric.

Twisting his wrist, Aziraphale curled Crowley’s hand into both of his. Then, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to Crowley’s fingers, his mouth lingering.

Crowley might never breathe again.

When Aziraphale opened his eyes and met Crowley’s gaze, he did so by turning his head, nuzzling his cheek against the backs of Crowley’s fingers.

Heat and pinpricks rushed through Crowley’s system, his entire body going hot and flushed a deep crimson.

“...Angel?”

“Why don’t you stay here?” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a question but an invitation.

“...What?”

“Rest,” Aziraphale said. “Here. Until you’re feeling better.”

“I-I…”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and Crowley turned as the closed sign flipped over and the shades came down over the windows.

When Crowley looked back, Aziraphale reached up, fingers skimming Crowley’s brow as he brushed an errant lock back into place. His gaze was soft when it found Crowley’s again.

Crowley swallowed. “I don’t know if I’ll feel better, angel. All I do is ask questions I never get answers to.”

“Like what?” wondered Aziraphale, voice that soft tone meant to soothe and reassure.

“We’re free, but… but it’s like drifting in space. Maddening with no direction. I’m meant to do… something. We wouldn’t exist, otherwise, right? But I don’t know what we’re meant to do or where I’m meant to be. I can’t decide if I’m truly free or if this is some test, one where, if I fail, others will suffer for my mistakes.” He swallowed. “...You’ll suffer for my mistakes.”

Aziraphale sighed, taking Crowley’s hand in both of his, holding it close to his heart. “My dear… you shouldn’t carry so much. You have the answers already.”

“How can you say that? I’ve been damned once already, Aziraphale, but here I am with more still to lose. How am I supposed to know what to do or what unforgivable sin will make me lose everything?” A brittle laugh spluttered out of him, and Crowley raked his hand through his hair. “And, now, here I am seeking counsel from an _angel_. I am a complete disaster.”

“I’m not just _any_ angel, Crowley. There’s nothing wrong with one friend leaning on the other. And you know what’s right and where you’re meant to be, you only have to listen to what your heart tells you.” Aziraphale swallowed, eyes playing over Crowley’s face. “I would hope your heart keeps you near me.”

 _You hold my heart_ , Crowley thought.

 _But is that the_ right _thing or the_ selfish _one?_

Rising to his feet, Aziraphale cupped the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley covered his hand with his own, pressing into the warmth and letting his eyes drift shut. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s brow, lips soft and tender, before wordlessly guiding Crowley to lie back against the cushions.

“Rest here. Please. I’m sure everything will look better after a nap.”

“What of you?”

Draping the quilt over Crowley’s form, Aziraphale gave him a fond smile. “I’ll be right here-- and I’ll watch over you.”

Crowley watched him, brow wrinkling. “Do you really think everything is that simple?”

“I do,” he said. “If your anxiety would make you leave, then I’m asking you to stay. We _do_ get to make our own choices, Crowley. We deserve to. I’ll remind you of it anytime you need me to,” Aziraphale promised, retrieving his book and settling into the chair not an arm’s length from where Crowley lay. A smile curled the corner of Azirpahale’s mouth. “We have forever, dear. Rest. I’ll still be right here when you wake up.”

Crowley twisted, rolling he was tucked under the warm quilt on his side, facing Aziraphale. His eyes fell to the book in Aziraphale’s hands. “...what are you reading?”

“Oh, it’s the very beginning of a grand epic.” Crowley lifted a brow, and Aziraphale opened the book with his gentle reverence for stories. “It’s called _The Wizard’s First Rule_. ...Would you like me to read it aloud?”

Mouth quirking, Crowley reached out to tweak Aziraphale’s trousers before burrowing into the couch and pillows. His beleaguered sigh was entirely too fond, “Oh, if you _insist_.”

“I do,” said Aziraphale primly, the layers to his tone warming Crowley in a way no quilt or fireplace ever could. There was a soft shush of paper, of fingers dragging over the jacket cover, the shift of fabric as Aziraphale settled in. “I’ll start at the beginning…”

Smiling, Crowley let Aziraphale’s soothing cadence lull him to sleep, tension of his body unwinding with the promise that Aziraphale would be there when he opened his eyes. That Aziraphale held onto Crowley the same as Crowley held onto him.

 _I would hope your heart keeps you near me_.

Crowley’s heart had kept him near Aziraphale for six thousand years. Would keep him there for another six thousand, if he was allowed.

He wanted to use some idiom about home being where the heart was, but Crowley couldn’t find the right words and didn’t know if he had the courage to speak them, if he did.

Then again, as Aziraphale’s warm voice brought the story to life, Crowley thought such sentiments might not need to be said.

Thought they might already be understood. May even be returned.

Pulling the quilt tighter, Crowley smiled into the fabric and surrendered himself to the comfort of sleep.

END


End file.
